Back in the Game

by Lori Wilde

  And there was nothing fun about upheaval.

  Secretly, she always feared that if she spoke her mind, didn’t go along with the agenda, or made waves, her parents would decide they’d made a mistake and send her back to the hospital. Abandoning her the same way her birth mother had because she was too much trouble.

  In a flash of a second, all the feelings she’d suppressed since infancy rushed over her—anger, fear, hurt, shame, and despair. They battered her, first one emotion and then the other, until she fell all the way through them and came out the other end, empty and peaceful.

  She looked at her parents’ worried faces, smiled softly, and said, “Mom, I can’t bring the seven-dip because I won’t be at the Fourth of July celebration. Suki can make it for Brent.”

  Everyone spoke at once. Her father said, “Of course you’re coming to the party. It’s not a party without you.”

  Mom put a hand to her forehead as if she’d suddenly acquired a splitting headache. “What are you doing for the holiday? Surely, you’re not working. You’ve already been pushing yourself too hard. We don’t see enough of you as it is.”

  “Hey,” Suki protested. “Can you see me with GI Joe? I’m not going be Mom’s matchmaking stand-in. You’ve got to come.”

  For a moment, the vestige of the old Breeanne kicked up a fuss. She loved them. How could she hurt them? Back down. Smooth the waters. Assure them it was only a joke. Ha. Ha. You’ll be there.

  She held up a palm, to quiet both the old Breeanne and her family. “I will be at the Dallas Gunslingers game with Rowdy on the Fourth. I hope you understand. This has nothing to do with you. It’s not my intention to hurt your feelings.”

  “Honey, you’re with that man five days a week, eight hours a day,” her mother said. “Can’t you go to the game on another day?”

  “Pass me the phone, Maggie. I’ll call Rowdy and get this straightened out.” Her father held out his hand. “I’m sure he’ll understand. We Carlyles have a Fourth of July tradition to uphold. Instead of going to the game, you can bring Rowdy to our party.”

  She could explain about Zach being the starting pitcher, and try to convince them to get on board with her decision, but that would still be trying to smooth ruffled feathers, placate them because she had decided to please herself for once.

  “Family, I love you so much. But I want to be with Rowdy. I want to go to the baseball game with him and I’m going.”

  Everyone’s jaw dropped open.

  “And yes, Mom, Beverly Crownover was right. I was kissing Rowdy in the back row at the movies. I’m young and single and responsible only for myself. I can kiss anyone I want.”

  If a stranger had come walking into the store that moment and seen her family’s shocked, reddened faces, they might have assumed Breeanne had just slapped them all.

  Everyone fell silent. Cemetery silent. As if at any moment a backhoe would appear and start digging someone’s grave silent.

  “Well?” Breeanne settled her hands on her hips, bracing herself for the fallout. “Anyone have anything to say?”

  “What do you know?” Suki grinned like she was awarding Breeanne with a medal. “You finally grew a pair.”

  “Honey,” her mother said. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  Her father blinked. “You’re dating Blanton?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m dating Rowdy. I know he’s a good-time Charlie. I know he’s not the kind to ever settle down. I know he’s out of my league. I know it’s going to end badly. I know he’s going to drop-kick my heart. But this is what I want and I’m going to do it anyway. You let my sisters make their own mistakes, it’s time you let me do the same.”

  Her parents looked at each other. Her mother whispered to her father, “I told you so.”

  “You never know,” Suki said. “Have hope. You might just be the one who makes settling down worth it. There is that scarf, after all. It’s gotta mean something.”

  “No, Suki. For once, I’m not living in the fantasy world of happily-ever-after. I know the truth. I accept the consequences.”

  Her father scratched the back of his neck. Shifted his weight. Looked at a loss. “All right, Breeanne, as long as you understand what you’re getting into.”

  “Really?” Asserting her independence had been that easy, and that impossibly hard. But she’d done it. Made it through. Overcame her deeply ingrained fear that if she spoke her mind, her parents would no longer feel the same way about her. She let out a deep exhale. Smiled gratefully. “I do love you so much.”

  “And we love you.” Dad hugged her.

  Her mother nodded. “Much as we’d love to keep you our baby forever, apparently we’ve been stunting your growth. Go ahead.” She shooed her. “Spread your wings, and fly. We’ll always be right here cheering you on.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Us ballplayers do things backward.

  First we play, then we retire and go to work.

  —CHARLIE GEHRINGER

  It was a typical Fourth of July in Texas, hot and muggy.

  Thankfully, it was an evening game. They arrived at the stadium at six-thirty for the seven o’clock start. The air smelled of hot dogs, peanuts, popcorn, and beer. Kids carried giant foam fingers and waved miniature flags emblazoned with the Gunslingers logo. Mothers carried diaper bags and pushed strollers. Fathers hoisted little ones on their shoulders. Teenagers horsed around, wrestling, fake punching, and goosing one another.

  She wore a white ruffled sleeveless blouse, with the cheetah scarf knotted at her neck, and a pair of brown shorts much shorter than she ever dared wear. Rowdy rewarded her with frequent appreciative glances at her legs. She might not be a beauty, but she did have good legs.

  Rowdy leaned over and nuzzled her neck. When she turned into him, he kissed her, hard, and she cupped his cheek with her palm and kissed him back, tumbling into the same fiery, dazzling surge she dropped into every time he kissed her, so glad to be touching him, to have his hand hitched through her hair, to be with this man who made her feel as soft and sensual as the cheetah scarf at her throat. When he finally broke the kiss, she stayed close to him, not ready to separate.

  Rowdy grinned like a god, and she relaxed, knowing the day was going to be perfect. How could it not be when they were together on her favorite holiday, and next week started their first day of third base. She shivered just thinking about it.

  “Excited?”

  “Uh-huh.” You have no idea.

  Spirits were high, the Gunslingers had been on a winning streak, and they stood in the will-call line listening to pennant race buzz.

  “Gunslingers are going all the way this year,” said one college jock in line behind them to his buddy. “Feel it in my bones. This is our time in the sun.”

  “Way too early in the season for speculation,” Rowdy murmured to Breeanne. He wore sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled down low, and he’d shaved his scruff of beard in hopes of avoiding recognition.

  She loved his clean-shaven look, and couldn’t get enough of running her palm along his smooth jawline.

  “Heard the manager is starting Zach Blanton. I don’t see the wisdom in that. Zach ain’t got the pitchin’ arm his brother did,” replied the jock’s buddy.

  “We sure lost something special when Rowdy got busted up by that jealous husband,” the jock replied. “Too damn bad the dumb sonofabitch couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

  Rowdy tensed beside her, hunched his shoulders, put a hand to her back, and leaned in closer.

  “Ignore them,” she whispered. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  He moved her in front of him, wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She smiled as she felt his arousal nudge her bottom. A thrill of excitement that she had swiftly grown to anticipate pushed through her.

  “Rowdy?” a feminine voice called through the crowd. “Rowdy Blanton, is that you?”

  He ducked his head to her shoulder. “Oh no. We should have brought Warwick aft
er all, but I wanted an evening alone with you.”

  A young, beautiful woman in another ticket line was waving like a crazed game show contestant. “Yoo-hoo. Don’t you hide from me. I can see you there. Rowdy. It’s Christy. Christy Jones. We sat next to each other at a banquet last June.”

  People were turning around, craning their necks, striving for a better look.

  “You’ve been recognized.” Breeanne tried not to sound dry, hot, and prickly, but she didn’t think she pulled it off.

  “Dammit. I was afraid this was going to happen. I apologize in advance,” he said.

  “For what?”

  A long squeal erupted from another female. “It is! Oh. My. God. It’s Rowdy Blanton!”

  A stampede of clattering heels, a cloud of feminine perfume, as a throng of gorgeous women surrounded them. Rowdy tried to hold on to Breeanne’s hand, but the pawing females separated them.

  Breeanne was nothing but flotsam in the wake of his magnificent ship. Her earlier exuberance vaporized. She couldn’t enjoy an evening out being reminded how she couldn’t measure up to the hundreds of women who wanted him so desperately. Her stomach sank, and she wished she was at her parents’ Fourth of July party instead of watching this feeding frenzy.

  She felt a hand clamp around her wrist—a strong masculine hand, towing her back toward him like fisherman reeling in a skiff gone adrift from the dock. Rowdy pulled her up against his side, draped his arm over her shoulder, and held her close.

  Terrific. Now she was close enough to see fawning fan girls drool on him.

  “Who’s this?” asked the girl named Christy, tilting her Barbie doll platinum blond head and blinking big eyes so green she had to be wearing colored contacts. No eyes were that color in nature. “Your little sister?”

  He puffed his chest out proudly. “This is my girlfriend.”

  The words sounded so sweet to her ears, but he’d called her his girlfriend before, using her as a shield to ward off predatory women. Breeanne notched up her chin. If it helped him to use her that way, she’d accept it. But she refused to let herself fall for the yearning that burrowed deep in her belly, a yearning that wanted to be his for real.

  “Her?” Christy sounded incredulous.

  The women shot each other bamboozled, what- could-he-possibly-see-in-this-schlump looks.

  Breeanne reached up, patted Rowdy’s chest, and said smugly to the gathered women, “I give exceptional blow jobs.”

  “Burn!” The jock behind them heehawed like a donkey. He held a palm up to Breeanne. “Give me skin, sista.”

  She hopped up to slap his big palm.

  That reduced the tension. Rowdy tucked his sunglasses in his pocket, signed autographs, and chatted with his fans for twenty minutes. The entire time, he kept his arm locked around her, holding her close.

  As if she belonged there.

  A girl could get mighty used to this, and therein the seductive danger. Enjoy the moment for what it is. Just don’t start believing it’s going to last.

  The crowd thinned out as people strolled into the stadium. Rowdy broke up the fanfare by angling his head toward the ticket counter. “We’ve got to pick up our tickets. I want to see my little brother making his starting debut,” he said to them.

  The fans good-naturedly waved him toward the will-call window, and walked into the stadium, shaking their heads and marveling. No one else was in line now.

  Rowdy went up to the window. “Will-call tickets waiting for me. Rowdy Blanton.”

  The ticket taker got off her stool, held up a finger. “If you could just hold on a minute, sir . . .” She disappeared from view.

  “Looks like she wasn’t impressed with you,” Breeanne said.

  “Happens every once in a while.” He winked.

  “Are you getting nervous about seeing Zach pitch?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “I’m scared he’s not up to the challenge.”

  “I’ve reviewed his stats from the Mudcats. Why did Dugan Potts call him up?” It was something Breeanne had been wondering for a while, but hadn’t brought up because Zach’s transition to the Gunslingers was a sore topic with Rowdy.

  Rowdy gave a nonchalant one-shoulder shrug, as if he didn’t care enough to lift both shoulders, but she saw distance come into his eyes and knew he was no longer in the moment with her, but kicking around a painful memory.

  She changed the subject, stood on tiptoes to peer into the ticket cage. “I wonder what the holdup is. Where did that ticket taker go?”

  “Rowdy Blanton?” a stern voice said from behind them.

  They turned to see two beefy security guards, who looked as if they might be twins, standing there, hands poised over the stun guns clipped to their belts.

  Rowdy broke out the patented grin. “Hey, fellas, what’s up? Want an autograph?”

  “We’re going to have to ask you to leave the premise,” the slightly taller of the two said, his gaze noncommittal, but his twitchy hand ready for action.

  “I’m here to see my brother throw his first starting pitch in the bigs, boys.”

  “No, you’re not,” said the second guard.

  Puzzled, Breeanne looked from Rowdy’s beaming face to the scowling guards standing shoulder to shoulder, blocking the way to the entrance. What was going on here?

  “Um, Rowdy.” She plucked at the sleeve of his shirt. “I have a feeling you’re still persona non grata around here. Let’s go.”

  Simultaneously, the security guards widened their stance and undid the snap on their stun gun holsters. If these two weren’t twins, then they’d tandem-practiced their intimidation techniques.

  “Are you guys twins?” Rowdy asked, his grin just getting wider and wider. “You look a lot alike. Who is the oldest?”

  “He is.” The slightly taller one inclined his head toward his brother, and seemed unhappy about it.

  “You guys know how it is. I know you know how it is. Your brother gets on your last nerve, but still, he’s your brother. You’re proud of him when he does good. You take his ego down a peg when he gets too cocky.” Rowdy’s voice was smooth and easy. “That’s what brothers are for.”

  The game had already started, the announcer’s voice boomed over the PA system. “Pitching for the Dallas Gunslingers is Zach Blanton making his big league starting debut.”

  “When your bro is sick, you take him to the hospital.”

  “Fucking A,” said the older twin.

  “And if he tells you that he left tickets for you at the will-call booth on the day he makes his big league starting debut, well, you wanna be there. Am I right?” Rowdy nodded as if trying to get them to agree.

  Like magic, the twins bobbed their heads in unison.

  “What’s your name?” Rowdy asked the taller one.

  “We’re not here to get chummy. We’re here to escort you to your vehicle and make sure you leave the grounds.”

  “Right. I got that. You made yourself clear, but there’s no reason we can’t be friendly about this. C’mon, you know my name, it’s only fair that I know yours.”

  “Abel,” said the smaller one.

  “Please tell me you’re not Cain,” Rowdy said to the other one.

  “I’m Alec.”

  “This is Breeanne.” Rowdy slung his arm around her again. “My girl.”

  The words “my girl” set off a fizzy firestorm in her stomach, and she didn’t want to let him down. Breeanne raised a hand, not sure what to do. “Hi.”

  “Look,” Rowdy went on. “We drove over two hours to get here. I know you’ve been given orders to keep me out of the stadium and I completely respect your position.”

  “Good,” Alec said. “It makes things easier.”

  “I’m not asking to take a seat or anything, but if you could just let us get a peek at the field. Let me watch Zach throw out one pitch, I’d appreciate it. You can stay with us the entire time, and escort us right out afterward. C’mon, where’s the harm? I’ll sign an autograph for you.”
/>   The brothers looked at each other, considering it.

  “Just one pitch?” Abel asked.

  Alec shook an Eeyore head. “We have our orders.”

  “But he’s right.” Abel lifted his shoulders. “How many times does a guy get to see his brother’s starting debut pitch on the mound in the major leagues? You’d do everything you could to be there if it was me and I’d do the same for you.”

  Alec scratched his chin, considering.

  Rowdy was going to succeed. He was going to charm them into letting him into the stadium. The man was something else.

  From behind the security guards came the sound of someone applauding in a slow, sarcastic way. “Gotta hand it to you, Blanton, you’re slicker than snot.”

  Sheepishly, the twins separated, one moving left, the other moving right, revealing a squat silver-haired man with an unlit cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth, walking toward them, smacking his palms together harder and harder the closer he got. He had eyes like a Boston terrier, chubby hamster cheeks, a potbelly hanging over his belt, and low-slung, bowlegged gait.

  Breeanne recognized him from TV. It was Dugan Potts, the Gunslingers general manager.

  Rowdy tensed beside her, his arm going heavy around her waist.

  “But then I know how you are, so I came down here myself to make sure these two idiots did their job.” Potts glared at the twins like they were something he’d flushed down the toilet bowl.

  It might just have been her imagination, but Abel’s knees looked like they were shaking, and Alec’s Adam’s apple convulsed. These big guys were scared of the diminutive general manager.

  “We were just escorting him off the property, sir.” Alec stood marine-stiff and she half expected him to salute.

  Potts ignored the security guards, and fixed Rowdy with a stare so malevolent it sent an arctic chill straight through Breeanne. “I heard you were writing a book.”

  Rowdy said nothing. Gone was the wit and charm he’d pulled out for the security guards.

  Potts waddled closer, but not within striking distance of Rowdy. “I’ll have to preorder my copy. Check if you got your facts straight.”